


Cold War Heating

by Saved8D



Category: Ghost Rider (Comics)
Genre: Cold War, Revenge, Submarines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:34:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saved8D/pseuds/Saved8D
Summary: A submarine, lost in the depths on the eve of the collapse of the Soviet Union. A man, left stranded and alone, woken decades later to find out the world has changed and left him behind. Left only with thoughts of revenge against the man who betrayed him, he is left with no choice but to use the demonic power awoken within him to seek out his revenge, no matter the cost.





	Cold War Heating

It was a cold, snowy day on the unnamed island in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. Captain Bogomolov had just received word he was to start Armageddon.  
It was December 25th, 1991. The captain was stationed in his cabin, waiting his turn for the radio. Each of the crew was giving a short message for their loved ones back home; Ivan Bogomolov always went last. In part, this was to allow his crew to focus on their task without worry their loved ones. But in truth, Ivan found it difficult to not discuss his mission: you couldn’t say anything specific, from describing a tree or a wave on the ocean to what weather was being had. He supposed it made sense, as the Supreme Soviet was paranoid about not losing their newest nuclear submarine.  
Ivan was a tallish, plain-looking man with dark black hair and a full beard to cover up an ugly chin. His wife said his beard made him look handsome, but he had his doubts. His daughter said if he got any bushier he could be a young Ded Moroz, so Ivan made sure he combed and trimmed his beard as carefully as he pressed and cleaned his uniform. Given by how smooth and free of wrinkles his uniform was, he had a very clean beard, as well.  
There was a knock at the door. Ivan shook himself from his thoughts. “Come in,” he said. The door slid open. The new midshipman, Dimitri Semenov, stood in the doorway. “Captain,” he said, giving a crisp salute, “I beg pardon, but you have a message from the admiral.”  
Odd. They’d been waiting in the middle of nowhere for months now. Testing wasn’t even finished on the new submarine; its class and name weren’t even given yet. Why would the admiral butt his nose in now? “Thank you, Semenov. That will be all.” Bogomolov stood, straightened his uniform, and walked through the narrow corridors of the submarine.  
The atmosphere was subdued; the months had taken their toll, and there was little word of a relief crew to take over the system checks. Everything seemed to be in working order. Why couldn’t they get the chance to go home? What was the admiral planning?  
Ivan approached the comms, returning the salute of the communications officer, before sitting down at the desk and placing the headphones on his head. He was a bit unnerved when he saw the communications officer leave the room and close the door. Was he in trouble? A brief glance through his memories said everything was still ship-shape, but perhaps he’d missed something. “You called for me, Admiral Markov?”  
“Yes, Captain. Aer you alone?”  
“The door is shut. What is so important?”  
“I have just received word from an agent implanted in the CIA; the Americans are making their move. A nuclear submarine is scheduled to launch an attack against the Supreme Soviet during their talks tomorrow. In our weakened state, we stand little chance of defending ourselves; you need to take the submarine to within striking range of Washington, DC, and fire as many missiles as possible.”  
“Admiral… are you sure? This is… this could make the war hot. Are things really this dire?”  
“Have I ever lied to you before, Ivan? Didn’t I tell you the Americans make me nervous? What else was this project all for?”  
“To be this dire…” Ivan sighed. “How soon?”  
“Immediately. I’m sorry.”  
“Very well.” There wasn’t any way to verify this outside the normal chain of command. Only the admiral and a few others even knew about this submarine. “Are we to maintain radio silence?”  
“Yes. I’m barely certain that this line is secure.”  
“I understand.” What else to say? “Please tell my wife… tell her I love her. And tell my daughter I’ll be home for New Years.”  
“I understand. Signing off.” The line went dead.  
Ivan sighed again, and then stood. He slid the door open with probably more force than was necessary, making the communications officer jump. “Sir?” he said.  
“Make a general announcement. The crew are to man their stations. We set a heading for Washington.”  
The officer swallowed. “Sir… is that…”  
Ivan nodded. “Yes.” He took of his hat, wiped his brow. “God help us all.”

The submarine was operating normally. All systems were working properly. Commands were issued, directions taken, and coordinates set in an absentminded manner. Everyone kept staring at Ivan; he could feel their eyes boring into his back. All he could do was stand straight, staring straight ahead, waiting for reports from his crew. He had a feeling their last messages had been sent to their families, and they didn’t even know it.  
“Captain?”  
Ivan turned; Dimitri was standing there. “Yes, midshipman?”  
“Are we really headed to America? To…?”  
“Yes. We’re going to bomb their capital. They are doing much the same.”  
“I see.” Dimitri stared at his feet for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back. “It was an honor to work with you, sir.” Then he pulled out a trigger from behind his back and pressed the button.  
The warning signals went up immediately. Ivan felt the submarine rock forward, then rock backward, continuing until the floor was at an angle. Dimitri was staring around the cabin with a cold, calculating look, and then he drew a gun.  
It was a suppressed pistol, the High Standard HDM gun, given out to American spies. He fired off ten shots, and in a matter of seconds the youngest and strongest of Ivan’s men were dead. Another moment later, and Dimitri had drawn a knife and was cutting his way through Ivan’s crew.  
The way the man moved, with such speed and precision, was almost a joy to watch. Ivan’s morbid fascination and sudden, freezing adrenaline kept him rooted in the same spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the grotesque spectacle of Dimitri’s speed and skill. In a matter of minutes, Ivan’s crew was dead, and Dimitri had a knife at his throat.  
“You are a traitor, then?” asked Ivan.  
“I’m a realist. The Union isn’t going to win this cold war. The Union isn’t going to last until the New Year. And if I can end it without our striking the Americans, then I will.”  
“What of the rest of the crew? Your brothers?”  
“I’m saddened by their loss. But the engineers died quickly in that blast, without pain. I only wished I could do the same for those here. As I am for y-”  
A fiery, skeletal hand smashed through Dimitri’s stomach. He only had a moment to stare at it before another burning hand grasped his head and stared into his eyes. “Do you see your sins, Dimitri?” said a burning skull. “Look into my eyes and prepare your penance.”  
A burning beam passed between the burning stranger and the traitor. Dimitri’s face changed from confusion to fear to utter horror, and then the beam faded. “Oh, God,” said Dimitri. With a quick slash, he opened his own throat, and fell to the ground, gurgling and twitching.  
“Hello, captain,” said the burning stranger. He gave a crisp salute. “It seems we’re going down.”  
“Yes… it seems so.” Ivan’s mind had gone through several different emotions and ultimately settled on making him completely numb. “Who or what are you? Some sort of demon?”  
“Not quite, but close enough.” The burning skeleton glanced around. “It seems we’re going down. If you give me control, I can get this sub back to the surface.”  
Ivan ran to several different consoles, checking the numbers, reading the data. “We’ve lost control of the engine and our hull is filling with seawater. Can you really control it, even so?”  
“I can. I just need-”  
The sub hit something hard. The entire thing rolled to one side, sending the bodies, living and dead, tumbling to that side. Something smashed through the periscope, bending it awkwardly before breaking off completely. Ivan only had a moment to reorient himself before the long metal tube impaled itself through his stomach.  
The burning man stood, rubbing his skull head. “That was bad. Are you alright…?” His words trailed off. “Ah. Not alright. Okay.” He walked over to where the captain had fallen. “Okay. The periscope is going through your stomach. The periscope is wedged into two sides of the submarine. If I attack either end, it’s going to cause a rupture and you will die anyway. Not to mention, the nukes will probably go off.” He rubbed his chin. “Okay. I’m going to save you. But you’re going to hate me.”  
Ivan could only gurgle in reply.  
“Good.” The stranger grasped Ivan’s head. It burned. “I give this human to you. He is to be your host. Release me from your bargain, and take him, instead. I have no vengeance left to live for: live for his vengeance, instead.”  
The flames faded from his skull, and flesh covered the bones. He stared into the features of the communications officer for a moment before searing pain filled his mind, and he screamed. What was that smell? What were those dark visions? Why was the officer smiling? Looking at him… staring into his eyes… such sin… such horrible atrocities… he was guilty. Guilty. GUILTY!  
Ivan reached up, staring into those horrible, guilty eyes. With a roar of pain and anger, he unleashed a torrent of flame into the officer’s face, searing him to a crisp instantly. The officer’s seared remains crumbled through Ivan’s hands, and he had just enough time to let out a “Shit” before the sub rolled again, and a dangling metal rail, wedged in the ceiling, broke off and smashed through Ivan’s skull and into the ground, leaving him in darkness.  
***  
“Truly amazing, isn’t it?”  
“Yes, Seth, you were right. It was here.”  
“Oh come now, Helen, you don’t need to be that way. There’s not many people that could figure out where this signal was coming from; it’s amazing you were even able to pick it up!”  
“When I started fiddling with radios, this isn’t what I had in mind. I don’t like being underwater at the best of times. And now you have me out here in this ridiculous scuba gear.”  
“These aren’t scuba, they’re diving suits. Besides, could we really risk anyone else finding this abandoned old Soviet sub before us?”  
“We could have spent our honeymoon in a myriad of different ways.”  
“Yes, but none of them would have involved using an underwater blowtorch to open an old submarine hatch. Speaking of, you may want to stand back.”  
“Sure thing. I’ll just wait- oh, you’re done.”  
“I’m too excited to wait any longer! Let’s go inside!”  
“Wait! What about security measures?”  
“Babe, this submarine has been out of commission for years. Besides, you’ll protect me.”  
“I dunno… the interior of this thing is kinda creepy. It’s so small, and dark.”  
“Well, the lights are all out, and submarines were built to be as compact as possible. This actually looks fairly spacious for a Soviet submarine. I don’t recognize the model, though.”  
“Let’s just get to the bridge as soon as possible, alright?”  
“Yeah, we’re almost… there…”  
“Babe, what are you… oh. That’s a lot of bodies.”  
“I know. It’s surprising they’ve lasted this long. Russian submarines: they stay locked up tight for years.”  
“What do you think happened here?”  
“From the looks of things, these guys were shot and stabbed. Those two, though… I don’t know. That guy looks like his face was burned off. And this guy here, he’s got a periscope through his chest and a bar through his head. That’s gotta be rough; no telling which one happened first.”  
“Look at his skin; it’s still so pristine. It’s like he just died.”  
“Yeah… weird. Could you hold my camera while I try something?”  
“Hold your… what are you doing with that body?!”  
“Nothing! Nothing much. I just… oh, that’s in there… I just want to get the bar out… of… his… head! There. Nothing to it.”  
“Yes, you’ve mutilated his corpse and now he has a hole in his head.”  
“But he looks much better, right…? Where’d the hole go? And what’s that glow?”  
***  
Ivan came to in a burst of pain and pressure. He screamed, but all that came out was a muffled mumble and bubbles. He was in a dark room, but that moment of nyctophobia ended when a bright orange glow erupted from his skin. Before him were two figures in large, yellow suits, rather like space suits. The two leaped back, insomuch that you can leap underwater. With a fearful cry, the periscope holding Ivan down melted away, and he pushed himself up to the first figure.  
“Where am I?!” he demanded. “Who are you?”  
The other figure babbled on for a moment, clearly in a panic. He was using English. Damn. Ivan switched languages. “Who are you? What are you doing on my ship?”  
“You’re the captain? And you’re alive? Wow! That’s-”  
“I did not ask for pointless babbling. I asked what the FUCK you are doing on my ship.”  
“Right! Sorry! We caught a signal coming from it! We wanted to investigate! We weren’t expecting a burning skull-headed demon!”  
“I am no demon. What are you…?” Ivan caught his reflection in the glass of one of the instruments. He still wore his uniform, though now long faded from the water. His head, though, was gone, replaced by his skull, a burning thing like that of the comms officer. Was he now like him? Had the demon changed bodies? Was he even human anymore? “Regardless. What of the war? Did the US strike?”  
“What? No. What war? The one in Afghanistan?”  
“The Cold War! The US was coming to kill us!”  
“What do you mean?”  
“December 25th, 1991. Did the US bomb the Soviet Union?”  
“No! The Cold War ended the next day! It’s been over for almost thirty years!”  
“Thirty… what is the date? What is today?”  
“It’s… it’s August 24th, 2019.”  
“20…” Ivan dropped the unknown American. “Why did the war end?”  
“The Soviet Union disbanded. On their own. They were done.”  
“So it was all for nothing…” Ivan stared at the ground. “What of Konstantin Markov? What happened to him?”  
“I know him,” said the other figure. It was hard to tell with the echoing water, but it sounded like she was a woman. “He’s the Russian Minister of Defense.”  
“I see… so the war was faked. We were not provoked.” Ivan grinned. He couldn’t feel his face, but somehow he knew he was smiling. “You knew, Markov. You knew the war was coming to an end. One last hurrah, was I?” Ivan walked over to the controls, and placed his hands on them. Somehow, it felt right; like he was a part of the sub, he felt the entire length and width of his boat. A voice in his head whispered that he could take the control, make this metal beast come alive. And then he felt it come to life, broken engines forced into place by some other power. “You two had best get out of here. I have a feeling this is going to get hot.”  
“What? What does that mean?”  
“Honey, don’t you recognize him?! He’s the Ghost Rider! This whole sub’s about to go up in flames!”  
“Oh… oh, shit!” The two of them tumbled towards the exit hatch, bumbling like fat babies. It was amusing, Ivan supposed, but he had more pressing matters. His consciousness filled the sub, and with a groan, he felt it heave upward. Flames sprouted from the controls, and the water boiled around him. He didn’t care. He had only one thought on his mind.  
“Konstantin Markov,” he said, “I’m coming for you.”  
***  
Konstantin Markov wiped at his brow with a handkerchief. “And this… when did you see this?”  
“Just this morning, sir,” said the man at the computer. “About 1300, we spotted this heat signature in the water. It looks like a submarine, but it’s moving too fast. I can’t figure out what it is; so far as I know, we haven’t any submarines in that area.”  
“No, none that I’m aware of, either.” Konstantin frowned. The Ministry of Defense was all about finding external threats to Russia and crushing them. Here in their computer room, where young lads pored over imageless data and extrapolated it, they had some of the finest tracking technology known to man. Still, the darkened room was lit only by the screens, and seemed darker for the disturbing thoughts in Markov’s mind. “Have the army scrambled. Get troops on the ground, ready to intercept.”  
“Sir, it might just be the Americans. Or maybe the Chinese.”  
“Check with them. Ask if they have a secret submarine in the Arctic Ocean; see if they answer.”  
“If it’s not one of theirs, sir, we might be able to slow it down. Let the others know it’s there.”  
“Clever. Go ahead. I’ll be in my office.” Markov turned and walked out.  
He walked to his office at a rapid pace. Anyone who saw him got out of the way: if he was in a hurry, then it had to be important. Through several doors and then past his secretary, muttering that he had someone in his office before he burst in in a huff.  
His old friend, Sergei, was sitting inside. Sergei was an odd fellow, and it appeared he continued the trend: he was balancing one of Markov’s pens on his nose.  
“Hello, Sergei,” said Konstantin. “What are you doing here?”  
“The signal, friend,” said Sergei. He bopped his head upward, ejecting the ben from his nose and into his headband. “There’s only one thing that could’ve been. The Unserviced is back.”  
“So it is.” Konstantin closed the door. “What do you want?”  
“I want to convince you to tell the truth, before it gets more people killed. Before you kill me, to hide the truth.”  
“Mm. I see.” Konstantin walked to his desk, and pulled out a bottle from the bottom drawer. “Vodka?”  
“Do you have brandy?”  
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Konstantin removed two shot glasses from the same drawer and started pouring out drinks. “You know I’m going to kill you, then?”  
Sergei picked up one of the glasses and took a sip. “It seemed obvious. You’ve had a great deal of success in the new regime, and you’d do a great deal to protect it. I, on the other hand, have gained nothing from the dissolution of the Union, and might have much to gain by exposing you.”  
“You do?”  
“That’s what you’re thinking, old friend. You’re stuck in a paranoid delusion from the old days. I want to bring the truth forward, but I don’t want power; I just want people to survive.”  
“Mm.” Konstantin sighed. “We both have a great deal to lose, Sergei.”  
“Not really. Just you.” Sergei stared at Konstantin over the rims of his shaded glasses. “If you’re not going to listen to me, then just get on with it.”  
“Sergei, I’ve no-”  
“You can save all your lying for your reporters. I know about the convenient deaths that happened, what allowed you to rise to power.” He downed his shot in one drink, and then slammed the upside-down glass onto the table. “Either kill me now, or tell the truth. I don’t want half-assed measures, and I don’t want to go to my death painfully.”  
Konstantin nodded. “Have you ever read The Count of Monte Cristo?”  
“Can’t say I have.”  
“Fascinating story. Inspiring, in some ways. There was one particular section that I always thought intriguing: the Count finds a way to become immune to deadly poisons by exposing himself, bit by bit, to larger and larger doses.” He stared at his shot glass. “I’ve always admired someone who can skirt so closely to death, just to gain an unexpected edge.”  
He heard a body hit the floor. Glancing over his desk told him Sergei was on the ground, frothing at the mouth and twitching. The gurgling he was making was probably an attempt at speech.  
“I am sorry, my old friend.” Konstantin sighed, and then pressed a button on his telephone. “Ms. Secretary, would you please send in the cleanup crew?”  
“Yes sir,” came the reply. Wonderful Red Room operative: efficient and eager to please. Markov adjusted his suit, and sat behind his desk. Sergei had almost finished dying by this point, allowing him time to consider. Then he reached for the telephone again.  
“Have the admirals meet with me,” he said. “There’s an incoming threat they need to be aware of.”  
***  
Agent Nina, codenamed Sink by SHIELD high command, was about to enter a nuclear wasteland.  
She was standing in the middle of one of the old nuclear testing sites of the United States, which had remained radioactive up to present day and remained confidential for longer. The Geiger Counter on her belt was going haywire, beeping and ringing in a way that told her the desert sands were still highly radioactive, and would probably kill someone should they remove the protective gear she had on.  
Her comms beeped; her handler was on the other end, several miles away. “All clear, Sink. You are free to remove your helmet.”  
“Finally.” She reached up, ignoring the precautionary messages from her HUD, and removed the helmet.  
It always tickled a bit, when she was exposed to potentially deadly amounts of radiation. Like she had to sneeze as soon as she was exposed. Most people thought of that as a bad thing, but for her, it was good: like having a whiff of a delicious meal.  
She took in a deep breath, and the area around her started rumbling. Most people couldn’t see gamma radiation, as she could, so it was difficult to describe. It was a weird haze that streamed off of something, like a road on a hot day or a grill that had been fired up, but changing the color to slightly green. The closest someone had ever come to recreating it had been green steam, but even that paled next to what radiation actually looked like.  
From as far as she could see, the green waves rolled towards her, and her mutant system told her she was absorbing it. From past experiences, the more radiation she absorbed the greener her hair turned, from its normal shock white hue to a vibrant leaf green. This was more radiation than she’d absorbed in a long time, though, and where before absorbing radiation had been tingly and kinda good-feeling, taking in several megatons of the stuff was downright euphoric.  
And then it was done; no more radiation. “All clear, boss,” she said into her comms. “I’ve gotten as much as I can from here.”  
“Are you full?”  
“Don’t know.” She pulled her hair forward; it was a very dark green color. “Pretty full, anyway. How much did I get? Five percent? Fifty?”  
“Damned near all of it. The area’s clear of dangerous radiations, and we’re having the eggheads go down now to look it over. With any luck, we’ll be able to move onto the next stage, assuming the plants are unchanged and continue to emit normal, harmless radiation.”  
Ugh. Testing. She hated that; the ultimate goal, from the beginning, was Chernobyl and the Elephant’s Foot, but it’d taken months to even get to the point she could clear out this area. She sighed and said “Alright. I’m returning now.”  
“Can do. See you soon.” There was a brief pause, and then “By the way, we’ve got a message here, from someone in Russia.”  
“Russia? What’s going on?” Nina was already mounting her hoverbike, preparing to return to the flying Helicarrier base that was SHIELD’s headquarters.  
“From a man named Sergei. He’s telling us there’s a nuclear sub that’s just reactivated and is heading towards the Russian coast. He said if it’s likely to cause a lot of damage, and his ‘government of thieves and brigands is likely to cover up than protect’. His words, not mine. He gives a lot of detail, too, including the captain’s name: Ivan Bogomolov.”  
“The man who killed my father?”  
“The very one. We’ve been told he’s the captain of the sunk submarine.”  
Nina was silent for a few moments.  
“I’m aware of your past with the man, but you haven’t let it affect your fieldwork, which is good. So, I’m not going to say what I’m about to say: there is definitely not instructions in your hoverbike which detail everything we know. The US is not officially sanctioned for an operation in Russia. And we are putting you on leave while the scientists in R&D go over your data and definitely not to give you time to get to Moscow. Is that understood?”  
“Yes, sir,” she replied.  
“Good. Enjoy your vacation.” The comms beeped off, leaving her in silence. She stared down at the helmet resting on the hoverbike’s handlebars, sleek and black, and then put it on to cover her expression of determination.  
“Ivan Bogomolov,” she said, “finally.”  
***  
The first reports Russia had about the burning submarine was when it beached itself on land.  
It was three in the morning. A few people were milling about on the beach, and saw a great black shape, burning like the sun, crash and scatter sand around. The police were called; a blockade was set up. The fire department was called in, as well, but they didn’t arrive in time for the massacre.  
The story was told to them afterward by a scarred officer, missing a leg and his eyes. Feverishly, he recounted his tale, of how the hatch popped open in a gout of flame, and a figure emerged, a man in a Soviet captain’s uniform, with a burning skull in place of a head. He’d taken a look around, staring down the guns now pointing at him, and said “I seek Admiral Markov. The rest of you may leave if you value your lives.”  
They’d looked at one another. “I don’t want to deal with the paperwork,” said one, and his gun went off.  
The bullets did nothing to faze the burning man. “So be it,” he said. And then there was fire and blood.  
He told them, afterward, that the burning stranger gazed into their eyes, their faces melting away in a flood of heat and fear. Each of them screamed as they died, and at one particular occasion, the stranger had roared “Is this my home?! This place policed by thieves and thugs?” into the night. The last thing the survivor saw was an orange-hot chain being wielded by the burning man, coming directly for his eyes.  
“Are there any others?” he asked. “Please! My colleagues! Are they…?”  
“Dead.” The emergency responder took a cursory glance around. “I don’t think they suffered long, but burning is quite painful, so they may have.”  
“Shit.” The survivor sighed, and stared at the sky. “It’s so dark. Why didn’t he kill me with his stare? Why must I live with those as my last memories?”  
“Hell if I know.” The emergency responder reached into her pocket and lit up a cigarette, framing her pale white hair around her. “But this complicate things a bit.”  
She stared at the long, narrow gouge in the ground where the submarine had been beached. The line continued from the edge of the beach at the water to well into the shore, and was deep enough to suggest the submarine was able to use land like water. It was the second time she’d ever seen an enhanced individual with that ability, and the first time had been a nightmare enough.  
The last time, they’d captured the mutant by determining he could only swim through one thing at a time. “Thing” was pretty broad, but it could be as simple as rocks or gravel to steel or cement. The way they’d caught him was by capturing him in a cage buried in wet cement, and then left him to stay in the hardened cement until he had a change of heart. Looking at the debris for this job, though, seemed like this new… thing… didn’t have any such limitations.  
Her Geiger counter beeped.  
Odd. There shouldn’t be any radiation around here. The fact there was meant the submarine was likely a nuclear submarine. But scanning the surrounding area only showed her one spot that was particularly hot with radiation: the spot where the stranger had beached the submarine.  
Details: what was she missing? Why was it only leaking in that one spot? Count the possibilities: one: it had already leaked out all the radiation it had and that was the last of it. Two: something else had come along and released radiation. Three: the submarine was leaking every time he got out of it.  
Of all of those, that last one seemed the most dangerous. But, quoth the detective, “Data, data, data: I cannot make bricks without clay”. So, while it would be prudent to avoid jumping to any conclusions, it was be paranoid to assume the worst and plan for it. And in her business, it paid to be paranoid.  
***  
“I see.” Markov accepted the report of burning skeleton men as easily as he’d accepted his morning coffee. He stared at the pictures on the projector screen, his hands folded behind his back. “I don’t have to tell you, gentlemen, that this threat is quite dire. We’ve no idea who this burning stranger is, but as you can see by the bodies, he has nothing but animosity for us. And as you can see here” he flipped to the next picture “this submarine also excels at moving through water. Normally, I would suspect it of being some kind of trick or advanced technology, but in this case I think we can conclude it is magic and therefore should be destroyed.” He turned to face the admirals. “Now, any suggestions?”  
One of them spoke up, an older fellow with a shaved head and a thick, square beard. “Can we use the Winter Guard?”  
Markov grimaced. “Useful but chaotic. As likely to cause collateral damage as the burning man.” He frowned. “Of course, it may not be avoided. Have them stand by; we need look for some other options.”  
“You said he is magic,” said another admiral, this time a bald, tall-headed man with a prominent chin and a thick mustache. “Are there magic users we could use to stop him?”  
“Perun and Chernobog may be useful, but they are better as blunt-force instruments,” came the reply, a third admiral with long, combed-back white hair and a mustache of his own. “Darkstar may (perhaps) be able to help, but Darkforce and magic are two different things.”  
“None of this solves the immediate issue.” The last admiral at this meeting was a stout man with a clean-shaven head and face. “Perhaps one of those three could permanently stop this demon, but how do we slow him down?”  
“Depth charges and mines,” said Markov instantly.  
All four of them turned to stare at him. “Explain,” said the tallish admiral. “He is in the middle of the street.”  
“He is, but he must move through sewer systems as well as solid ground in order to reach us.” Markov pointed to the picture on the projector. “And as you can see here, he doesn’t move through the ground like a ghost. He physically pushes the ground apart. This means he still has to interact with it: another thing we can use to our advantage.”  
“We can put mines in the sewer pipes,” said the stout one. “It will take time; we will need to prepare.”  
“You’ll have it.” Markov moved to the next slide. “As you can see here, at his current speed we have forty or so hours before he comes here; his trajectory is straight, and he doesn’t seem to deviate at all.”  
“Straight line?” the slicked-hair admiral steepled his fingers, and stared for a moment. “That would take him straight through the Rybinsk Reservoir, wouldn’t it?”  
“That is very close to Moscow,” said the bearded admiral. “You would let him get so close?”  
“He may yet get closer,” the other shot back.  
“What about that building there?” Markov tapped his finger on it. “Seems fairly large, some kind of school or warehouse, in the Moscow Oblast. I think it would be a good staging ground, as well. Assuming his direction doesn’t change.”  
“I will scramble the Winter Guard to get there post-haste.” The bearded admiral folded his arms. “Am I to assume we shall bomb the Rybinsk Reservoir, as well?”  
“It seems only prudent.” Markov shrugged. “Any other questions?”  
“Nothing in general,” said the stout one. “The details, though, may be difficult.”  
“Ah! Excellent. I have just the thing.” Markov switched to the next slide. “Now if you look here, just a few miles from the Reservoir, you’ll see this makes for an excellent staging ground. If we get some troops here, here and here… hold on, I’ve got a map…”  
***  
She was smiling at him. He looked away.  
When he looked up again to see if she was still there, he found no trace of her. Her seat at the bar was vacant, as if she’d simply vanished.  
“Boo!”  
Ivan jumped and nearly dropped his drink. “Vera! Don’t scare me like that!”  
“Don’t stare, Ivan. It’s rude.”  
“Don’t sneak up on people!”  
“Oh, phooey. Are you saying you were right because I also did wrong?”  
Ivan worked through that mentally. “No… but I am just… surprised, is all. It’s been years since I last saw you. You are…” He shook his head. “Nothing.”  
“Nothing?” She shook her head back and forth slowly, causing her long, wavy hair to ripple back and forth. “I am nothing?”  
“I didn’t mean that! I was just embarrassed to say you look pretty!” Ivan slammed his head onto the table. “Ah, shit.”  
“You see? It is not so hard to complement a pretty lady. And perhaps she would be willing to see you again, should you continue to give her affection.”  
“I would very much like that.” Ivan cleared his throat. “Perhaps… we could get dinner?”  
“It’s a start,” she said. “It has been many years, Ivan, but you needn’t be so worried I won’t like you. I always have.” She glanced as someone called her name. “I must away. Excuse me.” She stood and walked off, leaving Ivan to sit confused and pondering her last words.

Ivan woke up with a gasp. His heart pounded in his chest, hammering like a machine gun, gradually slowing to match the dull thrumming of the hull of his submarine. He clutched at his forehead, wiping away the sweat as fast as he could.  
Why that memory? Why the other memories, the ones that were supposed to make him smile? Why couldn’t he think of the bad memories: his wife’s rude behaviors, her tendencies to flirt with other men, the way she’d blame him for wanting a family? He knew of these, and yet thinking of them barely scratched the pain that he had when he remembered her smiles, the way her hair smelled, and the way she said “I love you” after a long night. Why those?  
He choked back his sorrow, wiping away the tears from his eyes. He had to focus. It’d been years, now; he looked the same. She was either old or gone. There was no point in seeking her out again, making her deal with the pain that lay in his heart. Better to hide it, to kill the bastard that sent him on a suicide mission, then to hope for any kind of reunion.  
His sub rocked. A second later, or maybe a hair earlier, there was an explosion.  
***  
The ambush at the reservoir had failed. Miserably.  
By the time the reinforcements arrived, all that was left of the panicked first wave were scraps of tanks and men strewn about like scattered seeds. Traces of burns and explosions generously dotted the plans, and the only sign left of the submarine itself was a gouge in the ground that extended away from the reservoir, now completely empty.  
The first wave had had cameras attached to their uniforms, however, and the film data was sent directly back to Markov. He, along with the other four admirals, watched as their plan of depth charges and reservoir mines failed to slow down the burning man.  
And then the submarine had emerged from the waters. From its tubes came scalding torpedoes, flash-boiling the water around it and turning the tanks to slag. This process repeated several dozen times on all sides, until the steam and smoke obscured the cameras. And when the burning man had run out of torpedoes, the sub had gone silent, and he had emerged.  
The cameras blacked out after that.  
Markov sighed, leaning heavily on the chair before him. He appeared defeated, or at least calm, but the bearded admiral next to him could hear his fingers popping from the pressure he put on the chair.  
“That’s it, then,” he said. “Send in the Winter Guard. Clear the nearby town of civilians. When he comes, tell them not to hold back: it doesn’t matter if he dies.” He released the chair and rubbed his fingers, which now looked rather stiff. “Or how many buildings are destroyed.”  
***  
Nina’s counter went off again. This old reservoir was full of radiation.  
“Ah, shit,” she muttered. “Shit shit shit. Shitty fucking shit.”  
There’d been no trace of it on the way over. The entire route, just one long gouge in the earth she followed with her bike. It only spiked when she got here, where there’d clearly been signs of a scuffle, signs that pointed to the submarine operator getting out. Which meant, most likely, the worst was true.  
A quick absorbing of the surrounding area cleared it of most of the radiation. Nina’s hair was a very dark green at this point, almost black. It’d been far too long since she’d been this full, and that last time had ended… badly. That was one of the other reasons the project had taken so long.  
She couldn’t focus on that right now, though. Right now, there was a Spirit of Vengeance making his way across Russia, leaking deadly radiation every time he stopped to take a leak or crack some heads.  
Nina pulled her helmet back on. Her hair crackled as it came in contact; already leaking energy. Not great. She was already too far behind the submarine to catch up quickly. And she had a feeling her boss was already figuring out what she really thought about the burning man, and the reason she wasn’t going to kill him.  
***  
A magical barrier awaited Ivan when he attempted to smash through the building. The edge of the submarine crumpled, then flexed outward back into its normal shape. Odd, that: most materials weren’t able to stop him. What was this? He walked to the hatch and opened it up, and then stepped outside and looked around.  
Seven colorful figures stood before him, wearing various shades of red, black and gold. Two of them appeared to be some kinds of machines, another two wore armor with horns on their helmets, one was a woman wearing a black-and-gold pantsuit, one was a giant goddamned bear, and one looked like a Russian version of Captain America, his costume completely red, his shield gray with a great red star on it. The shield was clipped to his arm, but his hands were out in front of him, holding two glasses and a bottle of vodka.  
“Comrade,” he said. “May we drink?”  
“Didn’t offer me a drink,” said the bear.  
“Silence,” said the woman.  
“Thank you,” said Ivan. He approached the group, stopping about halfway between, and stopped in his tracks. “Pardon me if I don’t want to get too close.”  
“I understand.” The red-clad man switched the glasses to one hand, unclasped the shield and dropped it to the ground. He walked towards Ivan, and offered him a glass. “I take it it’s been some time since you’ve had a taste of home?”  
“Too long,” said Ivan. He held out the glass, and the stranger obliged by pouring him a drink. “My name is Ivan Bogomolov. You may call me Ivan. What is yours?”  
“Nikolai Krylenko. Nikolai is fine.” The man in question poured himself a drink, and clinked his glass with Ivan before taking a sip. “I brought this from my hometown. It’s not the best, but I think its-”  
“It’s good,” said Ivan. “It reminds me of home.” He glanced at the other six figures, colorful and unusual, all. “I see that I am not the only unusual one, then? The years have become stranger?”  
“Far stranger than you could imagine,” Nikolai replied. “We have men who fly. Men who swing like spiders. And men who claim to be gods.” He jerked his head towards the horned men. “I am doubtful, however, that the gods are all they’re supposed to be.”  
“Gods, eh?” Ivan chuckled, staring into the clear liquid in his glass. “The KGB would have been less than thrilled to hear that. After all that work stamping it out, and religion survived, somehow.” He frowned, though Nikolai didn’t react: Ivan currently had no muscles on his face to form expressions. “The Soviet Union? Did it really fall?”  
Nikolai nodded, pouring another glass. “It did, many years ago.”  
“Was it good for Russia?”  
Nikolai grimaced. “We have… not been the same.”  
Ivan sighed. “Thirty years, I’ve been gone, and the glorious dream is crushed, and nothing good has come of it.” He downed his glass and then handed it back. “I’ve no desire to fight you or your… what are you?”  
“We are the Winter Guard. Defenders of Mother Russia.”  
“Winter Guard? Curious. No, I’ve no desire to fight you. All you need do is let me pass, let me kill Admiral Markov, and I will be on my way. He betrayed me long ago, when I trusted him.”  
“I’m afraid we cannot do that.” Nikolai was frowning now, an expression of grim determination. “I, too, am sorry we cannot convince you to turn back.” He carried the bottle back, and handed it to the bear, who started drinking it immediately. “We warned you.”  
The bear leaped upon Ivan in a mass of fury and fur. He clawed at Ivan’s clothes, tearing them to the seams, barely letting up for even a moment. Ivan threw a punch while the bear’s arms were up, but a quick block from the bear told Ivan it knew martial arts. Luckily, there was no defense against his stare.  
Ivan took a hit to the face in order to step close and grab the bear by the neck, before glaring into his eyes. “I see you like the drink too much,” he said. “What do you suppose your victims felt like?”  
Before the Penance Stare had the chance to do more than singe the bear, a flash like a stun grenade went off, and Ivan was temporarily blinded.  
“Confirmed!” said the woman. Ivan’s eyes had only just regained vision, but it seemed she was flying? Her hands were glowing, at least. “Blindness blocks the stare!”  
The two machines were flying in a circular pattern over Ivan’s head. “I’ve determined the frequency of his flames,” said the gray-skinned android in the black suit. “Dimitri, switch your scanners to exclude that frequency. I’ve transmitted the data to the rest of you, as well.”  
“Understood, comrade,” said the red, bulky machine. Was that a man inside? He sounded very nearly like one. “Darkstar, lay down suppressing fire, on my twelve.”  
“Coming around.”  
Ivan glanced at the bear. Currently still blinded, swinging wildly a good few meters away. He should be able to focus on the flyers, if he could just-  
“Perun, Chernobog!” the red man yelled. “Distract the target!”  
An ax swung at Ivan’s head. He dodged out of the way, only for his feet to be pulled out from under him by a hulking form in demonic-looking armor. A dark face – an evil face – stared at him out of the helmet, grinning and licking his lips. “I’ve always wanted to feast on a Spirit of Vengeance,” it said, something between a roar and a growl. It hefted Ivan up by his leg. “You will be tasty.”  
“He is mine!” said the other armored warrior, looking much more like a weathered soldier than a proper warrior. He was the one who held the ax, and he was staring down the armored thing through his horned helmet. “Perun will claim the right to end vengeance!”  
“You’ve never finished anything, let alone a good time,” said Chernobog. “What makes you think you’ll start now?”  
They were distracted long enough. Ivan stole the ax from Perun’s hands and sunk it into Chernobog’s face.  
While the demon screamed in pain, Ivan wrenched the ax out, rolled away from Perun and lifted the ax. “Stand back. I’ve no desire to-”  
Something grabbed him from behind. Some big, strong, and furry. “I’ve got him!” yelled the bear. “Follow my voice and beat him down!”  
Perun had closed his eyes. Dammit! Ivan had only a second to regret an attack based on eye-contact before the warrior hit him in the face.  
It hurt, but he was still standing. The problem was, Perun wouldn’t stop: one punch after another, coming at him harder and harder, beating him in the face, the chest, the stomach, anywhere a shot could get in Perun took. It was all Ivan could do to keep standing… and yet, he still stood.  
“Am I hitting him, Mikhail?!” Perun yelled between haymakers.  
The bear growled. “Yeah, but the damned guy’s tough! He’ll go down eventually!”  
“Maybe not.” Ivan closed his eyes (trying not to think about not having eyelids) and focused. An energy grew within his core, like a small gout of flame, and then expanded to his entire body, and beyond. A deafening explosion rocked his non-ears, and when he opened his eyes, Perun and the bear had been knocked away. The bear was covered in scorched fur and skin; Perun seemed unharmed but out cold. The demonic thing had passed out from pain, which left Captain Russia (or whatever he was called) the flying woman, and the two machines.  
Speaking of, the large red machine was flying at him, lasers and guns going off. He was ignoring his comrades entirely, as if he didn’t care if they were hit. And unfortunately for Ivan, he had no ranged weapons apart from simply throwing his ax.  
Might as well.  
Ivan drew back his arm and threw the ax as hard as he could.  
The crimson dynamo simply changed course, avoiding the ax entirely. “Stand down,” he said, his arms outstretched, as even more guns emerged from hidden compartments. “And this won’t hurt. Much.”  
Ivan, however, was distracted. He could still sense the ax, though it was many meters away now, and in the air. It was as if it was an extension of himself, and if he pulled, it would-  
The ax stopped, flipped around and changed course in the air, flying twice as fast back towards Ivan and slamming itself into the red robot’s back. It hadn’t hit it edge-on, but it had gone fast enough that the armor was several dented and malfunctioned. Machine and weapon fell to the ground with a clattering smash. Ivan sprinted to the fallen soldier, picked up the weapon and went to town on the armor, smashing it to pieces bit by bit, until the helmet flew off, revealing a bald head with a thick mustache and goatee, staring upwards in fear.  
For a moment, Ivan hesitated. And then he was hit by more lasers.  
What was it with the future and lasers? And flying? Planes Ivan understood, but just hovering was too much. “Come down from there and fight like a true Russian!” yelled Ivan.  
“What, and sacrifice most of your troops pointlessly? I think not.” She hit him with another laser. It seemed odd that she could fly and have so much power, yet not hurt Ivan that greatly. It was annoying, but he could deal with her after a…  
He turned his head to the submarine.  
The gray machine was there, his hand on one side, his eyes glowing a shimmering gold color. At the back of his mind, Ivan could feel the submarine leaving his control, as if something else was butting into his powers. Not on his watch.  
Ivan poured power into the sub, and it exploded into flames, powerful enough that the silver cyborg was launched towards him at sufficiently-high speeds. Ivan knew they were sufficient because when he held out his hand to stop the machine, his entire arm smashed through the robot’s midsection.  
It was odd, but he swore for a moment the robot changed expression, which was, of course, impossible. Then it looked at him. “Powering down,” it said. “Well-played.” And then it was dead.  
Something hit the ground and vaporized the grass. Ivan glanced up to see the flying woman still hovering overhead. The shield man was nowhere to be seen.  
Hm. The ax might night work. He needed something else. And the cords inside this machine…  
Ivan grabbed a cord, and yanked, pulling out several dozen meters of robotic innards and wiring wrapped in a rubber sealant. Flames trickled along it like it was oil, and instantly it was transformed into a fiery whip that bent to his well, becoming as much a part of him as his hand.  
Ivan swiped the long, make-shift whip back, and then cracked it forward, where it sliced through the air and around the flying woman’s leg. She had only a second to look surprised before Ivan gripped the whip with both hands and yanked.  
She was pulled out of the air, over Ivan’s head and slammed onto the ground. She made a sound like crying out, but it was dry and cut off; the air had been knocked out of her lungs. Better to be safe than sorry, however: Ivan yanked again, slamming her the other way, and then a couple more times for good measure.  
Something slammed into the back of his head, hard enough to make a loud “bang!”. Ivan barely felt it. He turned around to see the shield man catching his flung shield like a boomerang; very much like the Captain, in that regard.  
“Get away from my sister,” he growled.  
Ivan dropped the whip. “Your sister?” He caught the shield as it flew at his face. “A pity that you let her walk into danger.” The shield beeped, and then exploded. Ivan was unphased. The shield man was upon him, hitting him in the face, the chest, anywhere Ivan left open. There were many openings; Ivan couldn’t feel the strongest of this man’s punches, and didn’t bother to block. “Are you finished, captain?”  
“I’m the Red Guardian,” he replied, “and I never finish fighting.”  
“So you say.” Ivan caught one last punch, and then twisted the arm until he heard a snap. “You fight well for your country, yes?” He forced the Guardian to his knees, and then knelt in front of him. His eyes were locked on the other man’s, and it took all his will to not burn him to death with his Penance Stare. “When your country has betrayed you, discarded you for being useless and you are left to rot in the shadow of your failure, see how well your fighting served you. See what a life you leave behind.” And then he slammed his forehead into the other man’s, knocking him out cold.  
Ivan stood, surveyed the scene of his destruction. All the colorful champions had fallen, leaving him and his sub alone. He stalked back towards it, ignoring the rising groans of pain, but was stopped by a woman with dark green hair. She was pointing a gun at him.  
“Ivan Bogomolov,” she said. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”  
He was shocked, but his surprise didn’t show on his face. She sounded American, judging by her accent. “That was my name, once. Now, all I have left is the burning phantom, and the revenge he promises. Get out of my way.”  
“There’s things you don’t understand. What you’re doing-”  
“Will hurt a great many innocents? Will cause destruction and chaos in its wake? I am well aware. Men, women and children will look in horror upon the events of these last few days. You will find I do not care. I had everything taken from me; the world ignored me and moved on. I will take everything from Konstantin Markov, and then life will go on as well. Now get out of my way.”  
She stared at him for a moment in silence. “Please. You’re my father.”  
Ivan stood still as his world shook. And then he shouted wordlessly and hit her in the chest.  
She went flying back, rolling along the ground a good distance. Whoever she was, she was well-trained, rolling into her momentum to diminish injury. She stood slowly, holding her side.  
“Don’t lie to me,” growled Ivan. “My daughter was Russian, not American. She would not have access to this kind of training. And her hair was a pale blonde, not this dark green that you have. If you are going to lie to me, do it convincingly.” She attempted to say something. “Don’t speak. I have collapsed your rib cage. You will die slowly, and probably painfully. If there’s a next life, let that be a lesson to you.” And then, without another word, he walked to the submarine hatch, climbed inside, and sailed away, leaving the familiar trail of the gouged earth behind him.  
***  
“Fucking hell!” Nina gasped, at the exact same moment her ribcage popped back out.  
She sat for several minutes, trying to breathe, almost feeling the energy draining from her body and her hair. With a grunt and a groan, she rolled onto her side, and then to her feet, though she still felt unsteady.  
She was lucky. Nina hated that word, but it was true. If it wasn’t for her ability to heal grievous injuries, she’d be dead, and her father would have killed her. Stupid: she should’ve realized he wouldn’t recognize her, not with her hair like that!  
Stupid, stupid, stupid. As she absorbed the radiation Ivan had left behind, she plotted her next move. He didn’t recognize her, and he would refuse to believe she was his daughter, given the circumstances, but there had to be something that would let her break through. What of her memories with him? Surely there had to be something in there.  
There had to be, she thought as she mounted her bike. If she didn’t find anything, everyone in Moscow would suffer.  
***  
“Confirmed,” said the tallish admiral. “The Winter Guard are down.”  
Markov groaned. “I see. Completely?”  
“Perun and Chernobog are the most injured. Vostok is badly damaged but can be repaired. The rest are sustaining injuries that will put them out of the field for two months at least.”  
Markov nodded. “This burning man is quite formidable.”  
“And we don’t even know what he is.” The bearded admiral crossed his arms. “Some kind of monster, assuredly, but what else? A mutant? A demon?”  
Demon. Ah. That was it. That was why the burning man was so familiar. Markov nodded slowly, and glanced around the meeting room, taking in the four trusted members of his committee. Markov trusted each of them implicitly and explicitly, and each of them had proven their loyalty to him specifically many times. Now, however, was not the time for sentiment. Konstantin drew his pistol and, before any of them could react fast enough, shot each of them in the chest.  
Their blood was spilt, which was enough for the spell. Markov had long ago learned a single magic spell in case an emergency ever arose. This seemed like an emergency, so now was the time.  
Now, how did the circle go? Twist here, arcane symbol here, blot that out there, and then say the words that made your jaw feel like putty. Ah, that was it; the circle glowed with a dark light, like shadows if they cast darkness rather than simply being blocked light. When the demon he summoned appeared, it looked like… human? It was indistinct, a mass of shadows and jagged lines that defied shape or color. Markov wouldn’t have even known it had eyes or a face to look with, except that he could feel it every time it scanned him.  
“I am Konstantin.” Don’t let it know his full name, just yet. “I’m offering four fresh human bodies in exchange for power.”  
The demon glanced at the four corpses, then leaned onto three of its five arms and walked, spider-like, to each of them, making snuffling noises and giving each a full inspection. When it was finished, it returned to the circle that had summoned it and stared back at Markov. “YoU HaVe dOnE WeLl. BuT ThIs sImPlE MeAl iS NoT EnOuGh tO SaTiAtE My aPpEtItE.”  
Its voice rang in Markov’s head like nails on a chalkboard. “What else do you want?”  
“SoMeThInG PrEcIoUs. SoMeThInG YoU HaVe nEvEr sHaReD WiTh aNy oThEr hUmAn bEiNg: YoUr sToRy. ThE ReAsOn yOu cHoSe tO BeCoMe a mOnStEr.”  
Konstantin gripped his fists. “What do you want to know?”  
The demon grinned, somehow, without either mouth or teeth. “EvErYtHiNg. TeLl uS WhY YoU AbAnDoNeD YoUr vAlUeS.”  
Markov laughed. “Nothing valuable if your values are lost so easily.” He took in a deep breath. “I believe in the Soviet dream. I believed we were the way forwards, towards enlightenment and the liberation of the free man. And when I received an inkling of an idea that the war would end and Russia would no longer be the United Socialist Soviet Republic, I could not let this stand. So I sent out a man – a good man – on a suicide mission, one that would prolong the war and bring my country back to greatness. I knew I would be caught, or at least I thought I would be, but… nothing. I was not told to do anything beyond go home, and then come back to work to deal with the new regime.  
“Can you imagine it? Putting everything on the line for a dream, and yet nothing happens, and life goes on. Secrets were revealed; the full depravity of Josef Stalin’s reign is brought to light, and the dream slowly crumbles. Everything you stood for is a lie: you fight for a creature of darkness and rot. And yet, you come to work the next day, and do your job.  
“Only I and one other man knew the atrocity I had committed. And yet I was not punished. The war was over; capitalism had won. Long reign capitalism.” He sighed. “If everything I believed was so terribly, horribly wrong, then there was no point in believing anything else. I will gain and accrue power for myself, and myself alone, in the time I have left. I never expected to live thirty more years, then, but medicine is truly a wonderful thing: all the longer to gain power.”  
“In tHe eNd, ThEn, YoUr mOtIvAtIoN Is sImPlE GrEeD?”  
“Nothing simple about it. Greed and ambition are the only things to do while you’re alive: I am alive now, and I will not be in time. Why should I prop up another at my own cost? My own life is diminished in that way. Let the other poor bastards figure out their problems. My own are easily solved, now.”  
The demon laughed. Markov didn’t like it. “As gOoD A MoTiVaTiOn aS CaN Be eXpEcTeD, tHeN. i sHaLl gRaNt yOuR ReQuEsT.” It reached forward, holding out a burning skull. “TaKe iT, aNd yOu sHaLl hAvE PoWeR LiKe hIs, If yOu sO DeSiRe iT.”  
Markov smiled. “I do so.” And then he took the power for his own.  
***  
The city of Moscow lay before Ivan, a bleak shadow of the glorious construct he knew. Nothing stood in his way as he carved a path of burning destruction, and in under an hour he’d arrived at the Moscow Kremlin. It was the only thing he saw that was close to what he’d known before, all red brick and curving spires. When he arrived, he didn’t bother to go inside searching for Markov: the man was already waiting for him, leaning heavily on a cane.  
Markov looked a great deal more weathered than the last time Ivan had seen him. Thirty years will do that to a person, and Markov had already been old when Ivan left. As the burning man stepped down from his port, Markov limped towards him, grunting every so often with the effort of walking.  
“Admiral Markov,” said Ivan, “I come from the mission you sent me on.”  
“So I see.” Markov held the cane before him. “How did it go?”  
“Not well. If not for a spy in our ranks, we would have started the war to end all human life. Imagine that: an American saved us all.”  
Markov grimaced. “Don’t tell them. Their heads are far too swollen as it is.”  
“You would know.”  
“I would, yes. I would say your time away has left me rather profitable.”  
“Prof… you are one of them, now? Those… capitalists?”  
“I survived, Ivan. Surely you can see that to survive, you must adapt?”  
“The only thing that survived was you. And now I can see why, you cockroach.” Without another word, Ivan pulled back his fist and rammed it through Markov’s chest.  
The old man laughed. “Oh, you poor, naïve child.” Black ooze crawled up his skin, covering his mouth, face and eyes without impeding Markov’s words. “Did you think you were the only one making deals with devils?”  
The black ooze had completely covered him, leaving two white patches on his face where his eyes would be, and a symbol across his chest that resembled a stylized spider. Then a line formed across the face, around the mouth, and slit open to reveal a large mouth with razor-sharp teeth and a long, sinuous tongue.  
Markov’s fist engorged into a giant facsimile of itself, and then he hit Ivan in the face.  
It was like getting hit with a truck, from before, when Ivan was normal and weak. He rocketed across the plaza and into a wall, which cracked under the strain of him hitting it. Ivan groaned, climbing to his feet and shaking his head. His vision was in two, but he was healing; gradually, he came to realize that Markov was walking towards him, fingers stretched out into claws, tendrils of black ooze wiggling from his back.  
“What are you?” Ivan yelled.  
“No idea,” Markov replied. “What the hell are you?” A tendril spiked out from his hand, impaling Ivan and nailing him to the wall. Before Ivan could respond, five more tendrils spiked out and impaling his head and torso. In response, he fanned his flames hotter and scorched them.  
Markov hissed, as well as another voice that spoke in sync with his. The tendrils either pulled back or snapped off between the burning and his main body. “Weakness to flames? Inconvenient.”  
“For you.” Ivan balled his hands together and created a sphere of flame between his palms, about ten centimeters in diameter. This he flung directly at Markov, palms out, wrists together, like he’d seen the Chinese do during their martial arts.  
Two tendrils slammed into the ground, uprooting chunks of concrete and positioning the rubble between Markov and the fireball’s path. It exploded harmlessly, blasting the concrete to chunks in the process. “Not necessarily,” said Markov, “a minor setback, at most.” He reached down into the new hold with his normal hands and pulled out a section of rebar. The tendrils reached down as well and pulled out several more. “The impaling worked well, I think. Let’s try that again.”  
Several chunks of rebar embedded themselves in Ivan’s chest. He had a moment to yell before two more slid through his skull sockets with two ‘thunks’, and his yell turned to a scream. “You think this will stop me?! I’ve been through much worse!” The flames from his body burned ever brighter, melting the steel away and opening his eyes. For a moment he could see fine, and then the enormous mound of concrete crashed onto his head.  
“I’ve noticed,” said Markov. “Let’s see if this kills you.” He had twenty tendrils from his back now, all sticking into two large sections of concrete that had been uprooted. One had come down on Ivan, and the other was still in the air. With a quick swing, the one atop Ivan lifted up while the other fell on him with bone-crushing speed. “Let’s see how many of these it takes to kill you.”  
From there, Ivan jumped in and out of consciousness rapidly as the mountains of concrete repeatedly crushed him. He put all his strength into trying to kill that motherfucker Markov, but every time he moved the wrong way he was crushed again. It made him start seeing things: he imagined he saw his daughter, full-grown, but the next moment she changed to the liar that impersonated her, and then it was darkness as the concrete hit him again.  
And then silence, followed by a gunshot.  
The concrete lifted up. Markov was staring at the imposter, who’d shot him with a Browning pistol. How was she not dead?  
“Who are you?” Markov asked, which was itself also a good question.  
“Nina Bogomolov. Agent of SHIELD.”  
“Excellent. The criminal has been apprehended. If you wait a moment, I will kill him, and then I’ll forgive you for shooting me in the face.”  
“I’m not going to let you kill my father.”  
“Ah, so you know? Pity.” Two more tendrils emerged from his sides. “You should know, the real Nina Bogomolov had blonde hair.”  
“There’s a reason for that.” And then she screamed, and immediately after a stream of plasma erupted from her exposed skin.  
It was a vibrant green color, as bright as the sun and as green as grass. It hurt Ivan’s non-eyes to even look at it. It did a bit more damage to Markov, given that by the time she’d finished screaming that energy at him, she had completely eviscerated Markov’s top half.  
Ivan had only a moment to consider this before he noticed the concrete blocks starting to fall. He leaped to his feet, running at the mystery woman, and leaped at her, shoving her and himself out of the way of the concrete slabs.  
There was about a minute as the two of them lay there, panting heavily, ears ringing, before Ivan could stand up again and get a good look at her. She did seem to bear a passing resemblance to his wife, and the hair might be light enough, but…  
Her hair?  
It was pale, a white color. In the grey light, it might even look like a blonde color.  
Ivan felt the flames fade, his skull once again covered by flesh. “Little Rose?” he said, his voice shaking.  
The mystery woman was sitting up by this point. “Hello, papa snow.”  
Ivan’s voice broke. “Oh, my… my god. I almost killed you. I could have lost you again. I…”  
“I’m okay, papa,” she replied. She held Ivan’s face in her hands. “I’m going to be okay.”  
“What is… I don’t…”  
“There’ll be time enough for that later,” she said. She stood up, limping a little, but marched resolutely towards the sub. “There’s a danger we need to take care of.”  
“What danger? Why are you speaking English?” He hadn’t even noticed her switch. Was it when she said there wasn’t enough time? Why was there no time?  
“The sub is leaking radiation,” she said. “If I can’t absorb it, it’ll cause another Chernobyl.”  
“What? What do you mean?”  
“I mean the sub is leaking radiation. The nuclear core is cracked.” Her voice echoed from within the sub. “You must have noticed; maybe the Spirit of Vengeance in your head told you danger was happening?”  
“Spirit of what?” Ivan followed.  
“You must have noticed. A voice in your head, telling you to smite evil?”  
“Nothing. Maybe earlier, when I woke up, but the voice was gone within a few hours.”  
“That’s… odd. Okay. Here we go.” She pointed to a large crack in the inner hull. “This area is what’s supposed to separate you from the core, right?”  
“Yes.”  
“There’s the source, then. I can feel the radiation streaming off of it.” She frowned. “I’m about to do something that looks very strange, but I want you to know I’m alright.”  
“You have some kind of power? Like the… circus performers I fought earlier?”  
“Circus…? Oh, I see. You could call them that, I suppose. But yes, that thing.” She took a deep breath. “Now, watch me work.”  
Energy started to coalesce around her. It was like watching a solid-green version of the Aurora Borealis, and it was beautiful. Ivan watched her, and for the first time since he’d woken up, he wondered if maybe, there could be a life for him after waking up in this cold, dark future.  
***  
Nina had stopped her report.  
Her boss was looking at her. One hand was putting that overlarge cigar in his mouth; the other was adjusting his eyepatch. “What then, agent Bogomolov?”  
“He… died, sir.” It was hard to say. Not because she didn’t know what happened, but because she’d watched it happen. She had seen so much, and yet… “…My father had latent mutant abilities: he was feeding directly from the radioactivity of the core, just like I can, but his powers were combined with the Spirit of Vengeance inside of him. When the core was neutralized, all my father’s energy went with it, and…” She shook her head. She wasn’t going to cry in front of Nick Fury and the committee! Not now!  
“I understand, agent,” said Fury. His eye wasn’t looking at her, but something behind her, and moreso behind Fury. “Did you track down the Spirit of Vengeance?”  
“Yes; I was assisted by a Russian Agent, the Red Widow. She directed me to a magical trap that is designed to ensnare demons and other horrible creatures to prevent their entry into Russia. The Spirit is currently contained, and was in the suitcase I brought back with me.”  
“Sounds about right.” Fury nodded. “Alright, agent, you’re dismissed.”  
“Thank you, sir.” She nodded smartly, and left the meeting room. Fury seemed to have not noticed, or at least didn’t care that she was acting different.  
“You lied to your master.” The voice in her head was hollow and cold, like someone speaking from a place of great isolation.  
“He’s my boss,” she said softly in reply. “And he doesn’t need to know about you and me, Haniel.”  
“Of course not. He’s more worried about the Red Widow, and that demonic symbiote she kept.”  
“There is that.”  
“I assume you kept me to use my power to smite evil?”  
“Partially. The other part was for you: I have questions.”  
“Questions? About what? I’ve already told you everything. What more is there to say?”  
“Plenty.” She’d reached her room. A quick search told her there weren’t any cameras she could find; a quick lock told her she was alone. She approached her mirror, and then forced the change: her flesh melted away, leaving only bone behind. From her skull erupted green flames, like the energy she let off when absorbing or releasing radiation, but angrier, more violent. For all intents and appearances, she was like one of the Ghost Riders, but for the green flames. “You were part of my father’s mind for years: you would know every inch of him.”  
“What of it?”  
She shut off her power, continuing to stare into her reflection’s eyes. “What was he like?”

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, a short story!  
Okay, not really. It's 12,000 words long. Terrible. I'm a glutton for punishment with these lengths and I'm really trying to pull it back. However, I just really wanted to put this story down, because the aesthetics of Ghost Rider are underused, and I would continue to say that even if the market were completely saturated. Mostly, though, I thought that submarines hadn't been used for a Ghost Rider, and I thought it fair to change that.  
I don't know anything about Russia: I tried to do some research, but at the end of the day I've not left North America ever. If I've made a mistake, comrades, please let me know.  
Also, apparently the word limit is 50,000? Insane. And it needs to be 10 characters, minimum. I mean, what story could you tell in ten characters? "She left him?" That's not a great story. Perhaps "She was gone" but that's also not too great. I'm rambling; it's 1:41 am. It's the weekend, but this is gonna kill me in the morning...


End file.
